Nightclub

A Nightclub is a place where people go to drink alcohol, munch down pills, dance like fucktards and eventually go home with whatever bush pig, gutter trash woman will agree to fuck them. Resident frequenters of nightclubs are stereotyped as being the run-of-the-mill, carbon copyGuido scumbag. But there is so much more, my friends, so much more.

So get out your fake ID, hand over your $15 cover charge, grab a drink, sit back and read on for the madness, drama and lulz that is the Nightclub Entertainment Industry.

When someone thinks nightclub, they tend to envision a place full of flashing lights, a busy bar, a dance floor full of honeys, and bad music. But in every city, there are several different types of nightclubs, all pandering to a different niche market. For example:

Nightclub. This is your everyday, mob-owned, Guido ridden cesspit. These places are normally called "PLace", "Everyone" or "The Family". Despite the cool names and mile long entry line, they should be avoided like an Italian avoids a real job. Unless you fancy paying a $35 cover charge, $15 for a Corona (two drink minimum), and $20 for parking. All this to be shot down by overweight orangeskins who will think you're a fag because you don't wear a muscle shirt.

There are several types of dance club, most falling under these different categories:

Dance club. A club for people to actually dance. These clubs normally play Hard-style, Trance or any other form of Hard Techno. Of course, all of it sounds like shit so it doesn't really matter. Within these clubs you will find the phenomena of Ravers, performing "dancing" which resembles someone convulsing around the dance floor like they just drank the juice of half a dozen glowsticks.

Drugs are not only rife in these places, they're mandatory. The going drug is normally ecstasy, or whatever bunk is currently being passed as such. Sometimes you may see a Guido lurking about looking for pills, but you will rarely see them dancing, unless it is with other men.

Clubs. These are the places with hot women, douchebag men, and you standing alone, failing yet again to strike up a conversation with anybody. Anybody.

Strangely, for a dance club, very few people actually dance, unless you can call "drunken shuffling" dancing, which most people do. Also, for a club that works to establish a facade of class and sophistication, it strikes the novice night-clubber as strange that regular patrons of these places are the most unsophisticated scum to burden Mother Earth. Containing women who's only saving grace is their pussies, and men who's only saving grace is that they keep Maxim magazine in business.

Indie Bar. These places are normally small, hot and crammed full of pretentious indie fuckwits, milling about with a Scotch and Soda, shoe-gazing to the music of The Streets playing softly in the background. It isn't uncommon to find old pinball machines, video games and other "retro" things strewn around these clubs. The dance floors are a haze of smoke from Newport cigarettes.

Indie Clubs like to exude an image of a small club, doing it for the local scene. But they are in fact, every bit as corporate owned as the huge dance clubs the patrons of those indie bars despise. In every town there is a little place, kinda tucked away, where all the indie hipsters hang out, and it's really local, and it so like, fits this town, right?

And that exact same club is everywhere in America. A cookie-cutter, corporate concept. From the Christmas lights on the door to the fringe on the bar, it's all designed to look local, but charge global. Suck on that, emo faggots.

Do you like punching people to Thrash Metal? Can you see the irony of a Straight Edge Hardcore Punk band playing on a beer soaked stage to a room full of drunks? Well then, you might enjoy a rapidly dying breed of Nightclub: The Live Venue.

These places are run by the skin of their teeth by kids who don't really know what they are doing. Their money is light and their talent even lighter. Live Venues are places that you can go to see local bands that are too crappy to grow beyond being a crappy local band play.

The IRL drama of these places is incredible. Being known as alternative draws a special kind of patron. These people don't fit in with the regular clubbing crowd, and therefore become regulars of these clubs. The result isn't far removed from incest. A bunch of kids all fucking each other, all getting the same diseases. Despite the availability of booze and sex in these clubs, you still won't get laid there.

On the upside Live Venues provide somewhere to see live music, which is fast being replaced by faggot DJ's, showing how non-conformists they are by using Macbooks. Every one of them.

People who were alive before the internet had nothing to do but fight The Jerry and get drunk. This naturally lead to a combination of the two. The facilities that sprung forth are known as Returned Services League Clubs, or RSL's for short. If you are under the age of 25, by no means should you enter an RSL, lest you be accused of being a Whipper-Snapper, Commie Bastard or have you brain melted with bullshit war stories coming from the elderly over the sound of cells dying. Although, let me point out, that there is one exception to the Rule. RSL clubs are by far the cheapest place to get drunk in the whole entire world. The beers off tap are at genuine 1960's prices, and the food is also cheap as hell. RSL clubs also cater to the lesser members of our society, offering daycare services for the children Teenage Mothers, until mummy is drunk enough to drive herself and her 4 screaming kids back to daddy for a night of abuse.

Pokies, or slot machines as they are known in The States, are the main source of income in RSL clubs. Veterans routinely enter the clubs, put their pension check for the week into a small box and walk out to spend the rest of their week eating dog food. This is how drinks at these places are so cheap. RSL clubs are everywhere, and there will most likely be at least one in your local suburb. Also, due to enormous amounts of cash kept on site, and the apathetic, zombie-like nature of the staff, RSL clubs are fantastic places to commit armed robbery.

These places are seriously only for desperate middle aged women just after their 4th or 5th divorce, because they want to go somewhere unique and interesting to find a guy desperate enough to want to fuck a sagging, 45 year old single mother.

The more frequent the theme nights, the more retarded the club. Themes include, but are not limited to:

Ice Bars - Ice Bars are exactly that, nightclub where literally everything is made of ice. Ice Bars are found everywhere, even in warm places, including Australia's Gold Coast, which is located in Queensland, one of the hottest places in Australia. Many, many thousands of dollars are spent on keeping the club from melting, and then when it inevitably does, paying some douche-bag to carve out new chairs, tables, and toilets.

All this money has to come from somewhere, and as usual, that place is your back pocket. These places prey on your desire to get fucked, and that's exactly what happens. You just spent 35 bucks at the door to the fucking Ice Capades, sucker!

Like your mother, these places really do suck, they are cold, wet and often empty. Don't expect to pick up in one of these clubs, as it is notoriously hard to look cool in a Parker.

Walking into the nightclub for the first time, you will have every sense raped. The bright, flashing lights melting your brain. The stupidly loud sound systems making you dumber by blasting "Tik Tok" at 2000 decibels. The smell of beer soaked floors, cheap cologne, sweat, testosterone, vomit, piss and shit making your want to rip your nose off. The taste of cheap, watered down bourbon, vodka, rum and other spirits giving you a severe case of The Jew when you realized you got $20 change from a $50 for this drink, and the feeling that you can only experience when you've spent an entire night running on white heat after ingesting stupid amounts of nasty Speed and dancing like a fuckwit for 6 hours.

Nightclubs are much like the internet. They are dank, dirty places where only the nice parts are illuminated. Everyone is pretty much Anonymous, unless they want you to know them and anyone can be whatever they want to be. No one will know otherwise. So, dear reader, let me give you the run down of the kind of people inside nightclubs in a way you, as a basement dweller, will understand.

These are the Joseph Everses of the nightclub. Very rarely will you ever see them in the club, and even if you do, you will never know who they are until you pick a fight with one and wake up the next day in the desert with two broken legs and half a Smirnoff Icebottle lodged firmly in your arse. They own the venue, not run it, and simply stand around raking in the cash and doing lines in the office. These people are normally mob affiliated and not very nice. Chances are they don't just own the current club you are in, but many, many more. They are almost certainly packing heat and are not afraid to use it.

Club Managers look like, do the same job and are as expendable as Jacknstock. They are all buzzing of a vibe of grand self importance and are all insufferable assholes. They walk around the club at night, making sure they are seen telling lesser staff to do their job, when in reality, there is so little for a manager to do that their job isn't nearly as hard as a bartender or door bitch. This lasts until about midnight, when they have done enough to consider themselves "clocked off". After this point they can be seen drinking a stupid amount of free drinks and sleazing onto girls saying bullshit like, "Youse girls, deres something schpeshul about youse girls. I'mma head honcho here. I's own seven house. If youse girls ever need a house you can have one of my houses".

A Bouncer. Evolution has moved their peanut sized brains to within the neck for self-preservation. He is also almost always disappoint.

These are the IRCops of the Nightclub world. They are built like brick shithouses and are often ex-cons. Their job is to sell drugs to patrons for the club, and have sex with the female regulars so they can obtain VIP door spots. When you see a bouncer coming towards you, you should remain completely still, as their sight is based on movement. One thing about bouncers is that when you are being harassed by some asshole all night long, and finally take a swing at him, they will be there to haul your sorry ass out of the club and into an alley for a righteous beating. But as soon as some Guido motherfucker decides you looked at him the wrong way and pulls a knife, there is never a bouncer around to stop your skinny ass from getting shanked.

Look out for:

Uniforms. These apes are normally the only ones wearing a uniform in the club.

6ft 11 and 290lb of pure muscle.

Crazy eyes.

Prison tattoos.

A neck thicker than your waist. If there's a 45 degree angle between his ears and shoulders, you've found the bouncer. Drop your wallet on the floor and back away slowly.

You can thank God for these guys. They are the under-paid, under-appreciated and under-privileged bastards that get your sore and sorry ass drunk every night. They are the unsung heroes and heroines of our generation, and are by far the most useful people in the world to become friends with. Visiting a bar regularly you will invariably get to know the staff, unless its a huge place or there is a high staff turnover (common in the shit-kicker Nightclub Industry). But when you do, free drinks ahoy! Plus the ladies love it if you can talk to the staff and actually look like somebody.

These are the happy, smiling and inviting people that take your $20 before you even set foot in the club. Almost always women, because you are an idiot and think you actually have a chance of taking one of these people home for a long night of wild monkey sex. One thing to remember is that these people recognize faces of banned patrons with utmost accuracy. So wear a good disguise, faggot.

Activities within nightclubs are limited, boring and dangerous. Guys go to clubs to get laid, and you are no exception. But no one who admits this is going to actually get some pussy. Women go to clubs to play a little game named "how many guys can I steal off my friends tonight" with the gaggle of female friends they go with. The point scoring system is subtle, competition is intense and occasionally deadly. The fact that all the chicks are playing this game is why you always, always, hit on the friend of the girl whom you actually want to fuck, not on the girl herself.

Picking up involves charm, wit and good looks. So you are fucked. However, lucky for you, nightclubs are laden with Booze, Drugs and poor lighting, so you're in for a chance.

Every single nightclub in the world has a bar. This is how they make their money, selling beer. The promoter makes all the money on the door, so that doesn't count. Bars are the busiest part of the club, and therefore, the most likely place to get beat up. The correct way to buy a drink at a bar in a busy club is to line up, stare at your feet, yell your drink at the bartender, receive the wrong drink and change, take it anyway and walk away quickly. Any other way will get you in trouble and either beaten to a pulp by frat boys for holding up the line or cut off for the night (no boozefor you!).

Lets face it. Nightclubs can be pretty shitty places to be sober. The music is bland, monotonous and repetitive. The atmosphere is overpowering, with strobe lights, drunken jocks and up-tight bitches as far as the eye can see. So, the natural way to offset this bullshit is to get completely fucked out of your skull on drugs. This is where your friendly local drug dealer comes in. Nightclub veterans will have their own dealer, who they know personally and score decent shit off for a reasonable price. But you are a noob, and therefore need to scope out the shiftiest bastard in the joint for your drugs. Once you find Mr. Right, you may be overwhelmed with choices! First up, the king of the scene, Cocaine.

Coke is the number one choice of clubbers everywhere, as long as its in powder form and is snorted. There is nothing more glamorous then racking up a few lines in the bathroom and spending the next 20 minutes buzzing around, with a half chewed off jaw. Fun for the whole family.

Pills or Ecstasy are also popular, especially in the Dance Clubs, as mentioned earlier. When you first buy pills you may notice that there are a million varieties all claiming to be a million different things. Disregard this. If you have ever seen a dude cooking pills, you'll know that all kinds of lethal shit goes into them, and that if you get anything that even mildly resembles MDMA, you are a lucky bastard. Most of them are just full of shitty speed laced with drain cleaner and rat poison for added flavor. If you are gonna hit up the pills, get more than one for a night. Light weights might want to get two, but not take a whole pill at once, spread it over the course of the night. And don't be a pussy, munch down on them, tastes good, man.

Some people smoke pot when they go clubbing. You can tell who they are by looking at them sitting alone staring at the lights. These people are shit, just walk away.

Well, when I was twenty or so, i distinctly remember a disheartening and inhumanly disgusting chapter in my life. Prior to the Vegas trip, I had been talking to a girl. I won't name names ^cough CASSIE cough^ scuse me. But uh, she gave me pics of when she was younger. She was seventeen at the time (It's legal, shut the fuck up you excitable faggots). Well, I asked for a recent pic. Holy shit I fell for it. She looked a little leathery (that is to say, stretched out) but still serviceable. I hadn't had sex in a year (I lost my virginity to a Vietnamese whore) and at this point, I was willing to shrug off the certain discrepancies in her pics.

That turned out to be a fatal (figuratively speaking) move.

I was ready. I bought my ticket. I was ready to get some pussy. It took a two hour flight to get there (I forget how long it actually was). Once there, I couldn't get a taxi to my extended stay hotel. Fuck! was the word of the evening. Yet I found a cab and went to the hotel. Called her, said goodnight and I love you (I hate myself a little more each time I remember it.)

The next morning, she calls, I wake up and get the phone. Long story short, I invited her into the elevator, made out with her in said elevator, then went to room for fuck. This should've raised numerous red lights.

1. It was too fucking easy.

2. Her smile looked like Chiclets fused together by fire.

3. It was Las Vegas.

Holy God. The next weekend was nothing but sex. Regretful, disgusting sex. She had meth scabs, a stomach like a crumpled plastic bag, and tits like an orangutan, only not mercifully filmed in the wild, but IRL. We had sex in the shower. It was like a dirty version of Gorillas in the mist. The worst part was her period blood. My fucking dick looked like a murder weapon. I stood, frozen in panic. "GET ME A WET RAG!" I screamed in horror, knowing full well that she might've just AIDs'd all over my brutally exposed cock. (I went for a test. Fuck but I was luck to not have anything.) I even remember the distinct grit of her shaven pubic hairs as they bit into my tender, defenseless sex pole.

She even talked me into going to a rave. I NEVER liked raves. Ever. Stupid kids on ecstasy, tossing a glowing ball to each other and 'feeling' the music. I hated her more every second I was there. Also, some loli tried to hand sex me. I said no. I didn't want to give her potential AIDs, plus she was sixteen. (Sixteen is legal in Vegas. Still, no.) We were lucky to get back to the hotel. I was out of cash, and our ride left. Good thing a fat guy in a cowboy hat who was at the rave gave us a lift back.

She also sapped my bank account dry. That's just natural I suppose, but GOD DAMN.

So, I went back to Texas, died a little inside. Three weeks later she pulls some pregnancy bullshit. (I fed her the morning after pills. Plus, you don't show at three weeks. Dumb bitch.) I said "Fuck you! I HOPE YOU FUCKING DIE, YOU SOUL DRINKING HARPY!" and left it at that.

I think it was about 1999, and a new UFO-themed club had recently opened not ten miles away. At the time I lived in a house that happened to have a boatload of acid most of the time. My housemates and I decided it would be a fun night if we got all dosed and went to the freaky new club to check out the alien decorations and maybe find some (doubtful) pussy. So, we gobble up the blue squares, bang out a couple bong loads and get ready for the club. I don't remember how much of it we ate, or when we dropped (always a bad idea). It was probably just three or four gel-tabs apiece, but by the time we finally found it and got dropped off at the club, we were tripping hard. We're standing in line freezing our balls off when we realize that a.) this is a 'hip-hop' club b.) we're pierced up stoner metal heads with pupils the size of dessert plates and the only white people besides the three nervous-looking wiggers at the bar c.) our ride just left and none of us will have cell phones for two more years d.) it's fucking freezing and we still want in.

It was UFO-themed. That's about it. The 'spaceship' that was so highly lauded and hyped was a five-foot chunk of Styrofoam.

“

oh, it'll be so cooooool if you're tripping!

„

—my roommate's retarded girlfriend

Apart from a couple green flashers and some stuffed aliens hanging from the walls, this was your average dive - just full of black people instead of the usual meth-heads and skanks that decorate the local taverns. That said, the music was loud as fuck and the place was jam-packed. That bass was the fullest, loudest, roundest and funkiest signal I have ever experienced (and I did professional live sound for four years). The whole room was dancing - perfectly. The walls were arcing back at the ceiling seams and the lights reflecting off the disco ball were palpable. It was as if each one were a spinning, sparkling diamond and I could feel them as they flew around the room.

I had to get a drink. Fast.

My housemates had already started to move through the crowd towards the bar (though I'm not sure how, as they somehow were dancing as well) when the gap closed behind them. They'd been swallowed by the writhing mass of bodies that seemed to be moving in every direction at once. If I were to find them, or anyone, for that matter, again, I'd have to dive in. Not sure when I started dancing, either, and not sure that I'm doing it right. In any case the beast has drawn me into it's maw, and I dance, like a white fool, as always toward beer. The song morphed into another and the patterns all changed with it - I started to be able to see a couple moves ahead, and soon I was half-way across the bar. Sure, my face is melting, but I'm not 20 feet from a warm, nasty, overpriced Budweiser. That will totally fix everything.

Seven or eight insane hours (oh, was that minutes?) later, after taking one sip of that shit beer, I handed it back to my housemate. This situation was not getting any better, any time soon. I told him that our housemate who'd dropped us off had to be home by now and to call him and beg him to pick us up RIGHT FUCKING NOW. Of course, in order to do so, we need to worm back up to the front of the club and across the street to a pay phone - after they finish their drinks, of course. So I try to stay anchored to the bar, as it seems to be the only thing in the room not moved by the music. I can't help it, so I'm still dancing like a loa-possessed voodoo priest when I realize that a small vortex of the room has materialized around me - two massive ladies whom I'd apparently been rubbing my ass on. Back then I weighed 140 lbs. soaking wet, and at six foot, me squished in the middle and them on either side, we must have looked like a SuzyQ, wriggling about the rift that had vibrated through the western wall of the club, just above that shitty spaceship.

Somehow I squeezed myself out (though not without a fairly visible erection, I must admit) and made it back to my friends, who were, I think, either too fucked up or too afraid to laugh. They just stared at me. I rallied the troops and we were off - but this time I held on the back of a jacket. I was FAR too high at this point to even consider being left behind. Upon arriving home we all realized that black person everyone had misplaced their cash. Eighty bucks for the strangest half-hour of my life? Totally worth it.

The club has two owners and one of them travels through the country picking up new tricks to do in the club. So, a few months ago, the latest thing was setting the bar on fire. It worked just fine for the first few attempts, but on the fourth or so light up sequence, a blond girl didn't know what was going on. She stayed put, leaning one hand on the bar. Her hair caught fire and she burned terribly. Ended up with no hair and half the face covered in second degree burns.

The second floor of the club is divided into two platforms across one another, between them is an empty space for looking down on the first floor. Now, on an usual evening, fourteen to nineteen year old single girls line up on one platform, and single horny guys are on the other side. Its pretty funny to watch this huge collection of fat, ugly, single chicks trying to dance and look pretty for the collection of drunken male retards on the other platform desperately trying to get some hot man-love.

Where to start. There are so many stories, so expect more to be added intermittently.

First I'd like to start by saying that yes, us SysOps have lives, we don't sit on RC all day reverting your edits, so eat shit.

This first story outlines your basic experience at a gay club, and the fucked up shit that goes on there. The primary reason I go to this gay club is there are no big jocks to hassle you and no skanks to tempt you (I'm straight).

I'd been going to this club regularly every fortnight for 6 months, but I had just started getting into acid and thought it would be a good idea to go to a gay club on it. That night was a night of heavy drinking. Being rather poor, I could only afford wine, so I fortified myself with about two litres of goon (cask wine) before going out. My friend also had dope, so we all smoked a bit of that.

I had been lucky to "come across" some pills and about 8 tabs of blotter acid the previous week, so I decided to rail one pill and one tab before going out, however I pocketed two of each just in case.

Severely drunk, we all headed to an Irish pub to chill, drink beer and smoke some more grass. By the time we got to the city though, it was half an hour since I had taken drugs. I'm not much of a patient guy, and I was beginning to curse the person who sold me the gear. It wasn't working, what was I to do?

Well, silly drunk me took another 2 tabs of acid and 1 pill, giving the other pill to a friend.

Skip ahead one hour and the first tab was kicking in severely, however I was too fucked up to note the impending doom. The gay club is underground. Once getting in, we payed our cover charge and had our arm stamped, drawing obvious parallels to a special time in European history. I twisted and stumbled down the stairs and entered the club which reeked of dry ice. The pills had all kicked in and I wanted to dance, but also needed to chill, since the acid was making me somewhat mentally exhausted.

I sat down next to a sequined mannequin, and immediately struck up a conversation with her.

"Cool dress, it reminds me of the time God shit on Spain." (or some nonsense to this effect, dialogue will be improvised because I'm not really sure what I was saying)

I sat there for about fifteen minutes, watching this mannequin dance, it's torso and limbs twisting to the beat and the lights. A friend came and found me, it was her first time on acid, and we probably killed another twenty minutes babbling about sparkles, shadows and drugs, entranced by the mannequin.

I was tapped on the shoulder by the club owner who had been released from jail the previous year after killing a patron by stabbing him in the temple in that very club. He liked to come up to me and shoot the breeze because I was one of the only heterosexual male who wasn't weirded out by the strange vibrations of the club.

"Are you alright mate?" he asked.

I babbled, "Oh yeah, just fine. Strange dancer this sequined lady."

"You two should come with me," he said, grabbing us by the hands and dragging us out of our chairs.

This is it, we're finished. He's going to stab us, throw us in the dumpster and we'll be forgotton. Just another couple of dead pill heads. Society shouldn't worry. They're scum, absolute fiends.

"Hey man, where are we going? Let's dance," I pleaded, trying to remove myself from this situation.

"Don't worry, I want to show you something."

No point in fighting it, it'll just make it worse. Cows to the slaughter.

In fact, he took us to the VIP area, a curtained off room full of beautiful people, drugs and sex.

"This is Alf, he'll take care of you," he said, introducing us to a fat bald man, who immediately offered us cocaine.

Well hot dog! I haven't been able to afford this shit in months. So we both rubbed some on our gums, and we chilled with some foofoo cocktails for a good thirty minutes, with the vibrations getting weirder and weirder as the acid started to kick into fifth gear.

"Must dance now brother," I said, and grabbed my friend and pulled her back into the main club.

Reality was becoming increasingly warped, with terrible images burned into my retina. Lots of titties, a few cocks, no matter. Don't argue, just dance. So we did.

Fast forward another four hours, past the two strange trips to the bathroom (I still don't like having my cock ogled at the urinal), and the night was winding down. It was 6am, so we went back to the VIP room to find three men fucking. I wasn't made for this kind of sick environment.

The next several hours at home were a nightmare, I was still twisted on acid and coming down from the pills.

This was a year or so back, during a Hank III tour for one of his new CDs. I'd been to the venue a few times before, and been drunk almost every single time at some point or another during the concerts (one of my biggest regrets - ROWS of free shots at the bar during an Every Time I Die song that I missed out on because I'd been upstairs and blotto, but I digress). This particular concert, they opened up one of the side-bars I can't think of the name of; for those that haven't had the experience, a side-bar is basically a small, cramped bar with shitty decor where you can drink while you wait for the concert hall doors to open up (think "side-car," like on a train?). I was going to this concert with my brother, who unfortunately for him, was only 19 at the time, and couldn't come with me into the place and we decided to meet back up in the concert floor.

This particular side-bar was gaudy as hell; shiny walls, abrasive colors, and almost looked condemned on the left half of the place with all the busted tables and tarps. I went almost immediately to the bathroom to splash water on my face and make sure I wasn't tripping, and suffice to say it wasn't any better or less-revolting. Did I mention the fact the place was packed way over capacity with old, Canadian-tuxedo'd Gentlemen and their white-trash girlfriends? Well the bathroom was twice as packed with their Rebel-flag-wearing offspring (still odd they got a 14-year-old in there). Anyway, when I finally got out of the bathroom/trailer park, I walked up to the bartender and asked for the night's special - "PBR and a shot of Jager!" Oh yeah, I was going to be in for a really classy night.

So we all get into the concert some way or another, be it buying at the door or paying in shiny rocks, whatever. At this point I'd drank 5 PBRs, 7-10 shots of top-shelf Jager, and spent maybe $40 on the whole arrangement - there needs to be more awesome bartenders like this, for real, some of you don't even know the kind of deal that is to get fucking loaded. I'd made at least 10-15 new friends on the way down the hall and up to the merch areas, or at least I was drunk enough to just ignore the fact they were all assholes and just didn't want me to puke on their shoes. I bought a shirt and a button, speaking of the merch booth again, and wandered down to the floor and found my brother long enough to tell him I'm going up to the balcony bar and gave him some money to go get water or something while I was gone. When I get to the top, I'm flirting with some girl with a bandana on her arm and lo and behold, my best friend from downstairs, the bartender, is pitching drinks at this bar. This guy's a saint, and makes me Jager bombs and gets me couple shots of Jack for the lady I'm flirting with; didn't really go anywhere, but hey, it's all in good fun and the chase sometimes. I leave the guy a $10 tip along with the money for the tab and don't see him or the girl I was just flirting with the rest of the night as the two opening bands (of which I can't remember the names of) were winding down and get on the floor for Hank Williams III's and Assjack's sets for the night.

Most of this shit afterwards was a blur, suffice to say I almost got in a fight with some tall, skinny guy who looked maybe 16, a cute photographer chick with a press-pass grinding my shit while she took pictures of Hank for one of the ABQ papers (I'm assuming The Alibi), and this one really nice-looking MILF ass-pushed me, my brother, and about 10 others out of the front to get her and her boyfriend closer; one of them was a girl and they walked up and started a small catfight which ended in about 10 seconds when a bouncer got his nose busted and threw them into the Mosh Pit with all the angry drunk white people. Unfortunately I didn't get to meet any of the band members of any bands at this concert, but they took a lot of requests from the crowd after they played most of their songs up until almost midnight. Four hours later, still kind of wasted, and after saying goodbye to the bro, I'd be on a bus back home to a shithole where bartenders water down drinks and concerts are all made of failure once again...

"I went to this nightclub - with my mom. I don't know why, it was just an idea that I thought would be cool to try; y'know, make her feel cool or something.

Anyways, we paid ten bucks each at the door, walked in and ordered a couple beers (my mom's hardcore, no fruity shit). Then she gets up and disappears somewhere for a minute. When she comes back, she says "c'mon honey!", grabs me by the wrist, and drags me to the dance floor.

I guessed she requested a song, because this 80s electronic beat started playing, and she said, "this is what I partied to when I was your age!" Then she's flailing her arms and tossing her head to the music, which went something like, "Never gonna give you up.." I don't know, but it was the gayest song I had ever heard. Sweat started pouring down my face as I looked around nervously and realized that my mother and I were the only two people dancing (well, she was the only one really dancing. I was just moving my robotic, stiff arms trying to look like I was having a good time). Everyone else had left the dance floor and were pointing and laughing. I wanted to die: Just smash my beer bottle and jam the jagged glass into my throat and twist and twist and twist.

Eventually, a bunch of guys came over with hairdos and muscles that made Dragon Ball Z characters look normal, and wearing clothing and jewelry that made Michael Jackson look straight (God rest his soul). They pushed me out of the way and started grinding on my mom. I felt my embarassment boil up into rage. Then they started saying things like, "Why don't you ditch this virgin faggot, and let me give you some real man-lovin'?", and "Want to watch me take my boyfriend's cock in the ass?" I couldn't bear it any longer. I shoved a guy and yelled, "Fuck off! That's my mom!"

What happened next happened so fast, and I don't remember all the details; but to make a long story short, I got in one little fight and my mom got scared. She said 'You're movin' with your auntie and uncle in Bel Air.' I whistled for a cab and when it came near, the license plate said fresh and it had dice in the mirror. If anything I can say is that this cab was rare, but I thought 'Man forget it' - 'Yo home to Bel Air.' I pulled up to the house about seven or eight, and I yelled to the cabbie 'Yo homes smell ya later!' I looked to my kingdom, I was finally there...To sit on my throne as the Prince of Bel Air!"